


We're the Heroes

by bow_eros



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extreme Gore, Gore, Handsome Jack AI - Freeform, Literally Going Insane, M/M, Manipulation, Physical Therapy, Rhys gets some weird af kinks in this one dog, Rhys performs surgery on himself, Self-Harm, Skinning, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 10:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18849094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bow_eros/pseuds/bow_eros
Summary: Jack's an extremely convincing man. He knows when to take it slow, even when dropping such an important decision on Rhys.[Alternate ending: Rhys takes the deal for Nakayama's skeleton.]





	We're the Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic contains extreme self-harm.** Rhys performs surgery on himself, and there intense descriptions of gore. Please read at your own risk.

“If you were a  _ real _ fan, you'd do it.”

Jack’s voice on the speakers were much louder than if he were in his head. Rhys almost missed the quiet not-hearing-with-your-ears kind of noise Jack made.

But this was a stupid plan. Nakayama’s Jack-bot body in front of him, looming. Co-CEO or not, this was just… stupid. Right?

Then why was he considering it?

“I can see the wheels turning, Rhysie, you're thinking. You don't gotta think, kiddo, that’s what I’m here for.”

That’s another stupid thing. He looks up at the monitor and Jack gives him a winning smile. Convincing. Fuck, he hates this.

“Th-this would mean…” Rhys starts. His fingers are tight on the arms of the seat. The literal  _ throne _ of Hyperion. Jack handed it over, but Jack has never been a generous man, not really. Even someone as in love with the man - no, the  _ legend _ \- as Rhys knew that he wasn’t one to give things away for free. There was always a price.

“We’d be together, for like,  _ ever. _ ” Jack says. “I’ll make sure everything goes perfect. You already got that cool arm, that cool eye. It’s a little invasive, sure… but think of the shit you’ll be able to do. That  _ we’ll _ be able to do!”

Jack makes a lot of good points, as he always does. Rhys hasn't been good about this whole  _ decision-making thing _ since….

“Looking at your medical file,” Jack comments mildly, like  _ that’s  _ not super weird, that he just has access to the entire station’s network and overriding security protocols like patient confidentiality forms-- “It seems like that little implant in your noggin might have mucked with some of your brain. S’pretty big. Maybe you should sleep on it, sugarbutt. Let the idea sit on that big, beefy cranium of yours.”

Stroke his ego much.

… Shit. It's working.

“You can spend the night in my old crib. I'll get you something nice to eat from the Hub, on the house - ha!  _ Literally. _ ‘Cause I'm literally the station. I-I’m literally--ahhh, you get it.”

A door opens out of Rhys’ peripheral, still looking at the skeleton sitting inside of the desk. That was supposed to go inside him?

“Hey, Rhysie, come on. Don't you wanna see your new place? C’mooon, Rhysie. Don't think about it too hard. If you don't wanna, then we can find a different guy with a head-port who’s been getting to know me for weeks. No biggie.”

That feels vaguely like a threat. Rhys stands, mouth opening and closing for a second. “What about--”

“Your friends are fine,” Jack says. “Putting them on a ship with a couple Gun Loaders and sending them back to that ass-cloud of a planet. By ass-cloud I mean fart. ‘Cause it’s shitty.” 

The screen flickers, and sure enough, Fiona, Gortys, and - wow, has… has Sasha always been that pretty? - pop up onto the screen, being escorted onto a ship. “We’ll deal with this Vault business in a minute, promise. But I can be of much more help inside a body I can... control a bit easier.”

Jack smiles at him, and the door will shutter open and closed again, beckoning him away from the Jack-skeleton. 

… Rhys follows, mouth a tight line as he makes his way into the apartment.

 

\--

 

Explaining the plan to Fiona was going to he a whole can of worms he didn't want to dig into. After a night’s sleep in a big bed, having eggs made by Jack himself - well, Jack plugged into a slightly more nimble Bot, but similar in principle - he’d decided. Jack and Rhys would make an unstoppable pair. Together,  _ working _ together,  _ being _ together - and what a thrill that sent up Rhys’ spine - would mean they could do anything.

He’d do it. But slowly.

“What the  _ hell _ do you mean?” Fiona looked furious. “Are you  _ crazy? _ You're going to let an egomaniac, psychotic corporate entity just  _ control _ you? This isn't cohabitating, Rhys, this is--!”

“My decision,” Rhys said, sharply. “You don't know what I did for this arm, my eye. This is just… the next step. I’m doing this for you! For everyone! I have Hyperion’s wealth at my fingertips, I just have to take a few more--”

“-- _ limbs _ off. You’re sacrificing your literal body for-- for what?! How is this for  _ us? _ What kind of mental gymnastics--”

“Alright, I’ve seen enough,” Jack will cut off the transmission, looking displeased. Rhys blinks at the dark screen before he glances to Jack, posed unimpressed with his hands on his hips on another screen. “I don't know why you trusted that bowler-hat wearing hussy. She just doesn't get it.”

“She’s--” Rhys turns a bit pink. “She’s my friend, Jack.”

Jack waves dismissively. “Sure. Doesn't sound very supportive to me. Isn't that what friends are supposed to do? Support you in your decisions? And you  _ offered _ her  _ my _ money-- who doesn't wanna take Handsome frickin’ Jack’s money and spend it on their own shit?”

Rhys is quiet, almost pouting, but he’s right. Fiona doesn't know what’s gonna hit her. He’ll send them somewhere nice, set them up with an allowance and a nice house, she and Sasha can do whatever they like, off-planet! Off the literal hellscape that is Pandora!

… He hopes Vaughn is okay.

“Listen, kiddo, I support you. I want the same things you want most the time, a-and I’m more than willing to let you have some wiggle room, some, ah, y’know, projects off to the side to do what you want. That’s what friends do. I know you’re my friend-- hell, you would’ve done away with me a lot sooner if I weren't, right, Rhysie? Not one to put up with bullshit. That’s what I like about you. And with my charm, my power?  _ Woooh! _ You'n me? Unstoppable. Frickin’ perfect. Like, wh-who wouldn't want to be  _ us? _ ”

 

\--

 

The first time that he put the scalpel to skin, Jack wasn't in his body. In his brain. 

Rhys is shaking, looking down at the marks on his foot where he’s carefully cutting away at the skin, the blood stipended so the tissue doesn’t die - everything is laid and planned out perfectly, a doctor on call, even standing in the next room (Jack had been so adamant that he wanted Rhys to do this himself, that it was something so intimate)--

This had to be a joint thing. An effort for both of them-- Rhys was giving up so much, and he couldn't do it alone. Not like this, anyway.

“Jack?” his voice was shaking, holding the gauze to the top of his foot. Starting with something delicate, but small. Increments at a time.

“What is it, sweetcheeks? Getting cold feet?” he sounds irritated, saccharine. He’s eager, and Rhys  _ isn’t _ getting cold feet, but Rhys knows he needs a bit of a comforting presence.

“N-no, I just… can you… Be in me?”

“ _ Whoa _ , hey, babe, I bat for both teams but I typically like to go out to dinner before taking a swing.”

Rhys levels the nearest monitor with a withering glare.

Without more commentary, the small probe comes out of the wall, offering itself like a hand to be held. He slots it into the port on his temple and within a few moments, Jack’s standing next to him, looking down at his foot.

“M’here,” he says, low. It feels better, not listening to him through the sound system. An internal voice that makes Rhys shiver.

“Don't worry, Rhysie, I’m here.”

 

\--

 

He can flex his toes after three weeks of physical therapy. It makes Jack hoot and holler, and Rhys can't help but share his excitement.

They’re getting closer.

 

\--

 

“Listen, sweetheart, you know what to do, you just gotta  _ do _ it.” Jack takes control of the advanced prosthetic on Rhys’ right and waves the scalpel around. “I’m dying here, kiddo. I wanna run!”

“J-Jack, it’s just a lot of... I gotta-- gimme that back!” Rhys grabs the bicep on his robotic arm and pins it to his side. “It’s my  _ entire leg, _ Jack. I’m working on it. It’s gotta go slow.”

Jack will release control on his arm, gonna frown at him. “I’m stoked, kid, don't throw off my groove. We’ve got both feet down, we just gotta take the jump.  _ Literally. _ Your jumping parts gotta go.”

Christ alive, Rhys wants to scream. How is he not getting it?

“Let’s do it together,” Jack offers. “I’ll take rightie, you take leftie, we’ll start it together.”

For some reason, that helps. Hand-holding his way through literally deboning his leg.

At least he can't feel it. Thank fuck for this intense-strength epidural. And the fact that he’s gotten a much, much better handle on seeing his flesh splayed out like a frog on a platter in school. No more nausea.

The cut is clean, their fingers touching intimately and a tense quietness is set on them. Jack is concentrating. Rhys wants to stare, but it’s more important that he’s flaying the tissue correctly.

Jack smiles and dabs the wound with some gauze.

“Doctors are on standby, cupcake. I won't let anything go wrong.”

Somehow, Rhys knows that nothing  _ will  _ go wrong. Not with Jack here.

 

\--

 

Jack likes to fold Rhys’ legs, one knee over the other, squishing his  _ junk _ and making it difficult to concentrate during meetings. Now they’re a few months in, walking - with the assistance of a cane most times, until Rhys’ balance is back entirely - Jack spends more of his time inside  _ their _ body versus in the station’s systems. He likes to tease quietly, pulling a string of Rhys’ attention like a kitten playing with thread: mildly amusing, extremely distracting.

Especially when Jack realizes how much Rhys actually likes when Jack takes control of his motor skills. Squeezing his thighs together, tapping fingers on the tabletop to a tune they heard over the PA system earlier,  _ little _ things that make Rhys light up like a mercenary day tire fire.

“Mr. Strongford, sir,” the manager murmurs like he’s scolding the younger man, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Rhys breathes. “Keep going. You were saying, the aging reports.”

God, he hates accounting. He wishes Vaughn were here to take care of this. He’s gotten no message from him since they all came up to Helios. He’ll have to send some Bots down to look for him again. He hopes that they don't find a corpse.

What a huge shift in gears. It makes whatever excitement in Rhys’ expression die out.

Jack appears, sitting on the desk, out of the middle managers view. Just a private meeting between him and Rhys. “Jees, buttercup, you look like I just stepped on your dog. What’s eating you?” 

He can't talk right now without seeming  _ nuts,  _ but he’ll give Jack an appreciative glance for checking in on him. Strangely attentive, this ghost of a man.

“Hey, I get it,” Jack will reach down with Rhys’ mechanical arm and squeeze his thigh. Meant to be gentle, comforting, but just comes off teasing, especially with the shit-eating grin Jack has. “Numbers are boooring. You could totally space him. There are six others waiting to sink their teeth into his position.”

“I’m not killing him,” Rhys says, rolling his eyes.

… the look he gets from the middle manager makes Jack laugh, and now Rhys is fire-red for a much different reason.

 

\--

 

Jack kisses the port on his temple and sends a soft zap down the side of his face, grinning. “You’re doing so good, Rhysie. Look at you. More robot than man at this point.”

Rhys slides the knife carefully along the bone in his left arm, taking off the sinew and muscle slowly, a layer of sweat on his brow as he carefully,  _ carefully _ \- he literally  _ cannot  _ be more  _ careful _ \- debones himself.

Everything is still intact. He’s gotten good at this. Scary good. Jack gets a manic look in his eyes when Rhys brings it up at physical therapy. He gets more physical. He runs the mechanical hand along Rhys’ torso, whispering dirty, _ crazy _ sweet nothings directly into his brain about how he cannot wait to be inside him completely.

It’s addicting. Praise is addicting.

“Shit, Rhys. Look at you. Smart cookie, so…  _ Mmgh _ . Almost makes me wish I had a body completely my own so I can screw the smart right out of you.”

“Jack,” his voice is hoarse. He grabs a sip of water off the nearby table, smacks his lips. “I’m a little busy.”

“Don't lie and say you don't want it.”

“I think I have every right to not incriminate myself under these intense interrogation circumstances.”

“Lack of an answer is still a god damn answer, you minx.”

“ _ Later, _ Jack. I’m working.”

“ _ And _ a hard worker. God, you're a boss’s wet dream, kitten.”

Jack stays quiet, thank goodness, as Rhys pries his joints apart, starting to attach everything. Work the flesh back into place. It’s disgusting, but so, so satisfying now. Even knowing how Jack will praise him later, he’s hard in his slacks. This has got to be the weirdest thing to get off on.

 

\--

 

Actually, no. Seeing the  _ other _ robotic skeleton being placed inside another person is the weirdest thing to get off on. Rhys’ torso - the bones, there, at least - is the only thing left in his body that’s his own, and Jack is happy to take advantage of that. He’s sitting in an observation deck, watching as doctors carefully pick apart the remains of a bandit, up to the last vertebrae in his neck, until he’s boneless, muscles twitching and squirming, blood still pumping. Skinned like an animal, just needing to be flipped over to be a rug.

His organic hand (though how organic is it, anymore?) twitches on his thigh against his own volition, and Jack makes a soft sound.

“Jees, cupcake, you really are gross, huh? Who knew that you’d get off on this?”

“I-I’m not…” Rhys whispers, but he’ll shut his mouth after another moment or two. He can’t really say that, not with how hard he is. How much he wants it.

“Is it the power? The blood?” Jack asks. “Or is it really just seeing another person be little more than a frickin’ wall decoration?”

Rhys is quiet, thin-lipped and almost sweating. He glances away, but Jack tuts. He looks back at the surgery without having to be told to.

The mess on the window a few minutes later is shameful to look at, but it only makes Rhys hot under the collar, seeing his cum splayed over the glass, layering over the carnage of the bandit below.

 

\--

 

Jack gets him a literal skin rug. He hates to admit it, but he loves it.

He loves it more when Jack get him to lay down on it, pet the scars and tattoos. He feels like a supervillain, but Jack assures him:

“No, no, baby. We’re the  _ heroes. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> f-first rhack fic hello and welcome to the pain train until BL3
> 
> might add a second chapter at a later date with them having a mindfuck of a lifetime on a literal bandit-skin rug sooooo leave a comment if you want!


End file.
